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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25258153">it's written in bold letters</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveSincerely/pseuds/LiveSincerely'>LiveSincerely</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Tease [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Car Sex, Clothed Sex, Clothes Sharing, Getting Together, Jack is Fine™, Lap Sitting, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious David Jacobs, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Jack Kelly, Possessive Sex, author knows nothing about high school football, other newsies are in this but i don't want to crowd their character tags, the football thing is just a pretense to get Davey in Jack's letterman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:22:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,934</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25258153</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveSincerely/pseuds/LiveSincerely</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Jack, Katherine’s just texted me—she wants to know where we’re eating after the game,” Davey says as he wanders back into the living room.</p><p>“I dunno Davey, anywhere is fine… by......” Jack trails off, suddenly speechless. Davey is wearing his letterman jacket. <em>Davey is wearing his—</em></p><p>Jack’s mouth goes dry. It feels like someone’s hit him, hard, right between the eyes.</p><p>Or:</p><p>Davey wears Jack's letterman jacket. Jack handles it about as well as you'd expect.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>David Jacobs/Jack Kelly</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Tease [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/763110</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>74</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>305</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Pre-Game</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jack had thought this would go without saying, but apparently not. “You are not wearing that to the game tonight.”</p><p>Davey looks down at himself, visibly confused. “Why not?”</p><p>Jack points out the obvious problem. “It’s green.”</p><p>“So?”</p><p>“Green is Westpoint’s color.”</p><p>Davey looks at him, nonplussed.</p><p>“Dave, you can’t wear the other team’s color to our first home game of the season,” Jack explains with a sigh. “Especially not when we’re going up against <em> Westpoint</em>.”</p><p>“But I like this hoodie,” Davey says with a pout. “It’s comfortable.”</p><p>Jack shakes his head. “You gotta change into something else. Don’t you have anything red?”</p><p>“Yeah, sure, in my closet. At home.” Davey retorts. “This is all I brought with me, and no,” Davey amends quickly when Jack starts to interject, "I can’t just wear my t-shirt. It’s supposed to be cold later and I am not sitting out on the bleachers all night without at least a jacket.”</p><p>“You can borrow something of mine,” Jack counters.</p><p>Davey huffs out a breath, “Do I really have to?” </p><p>“Just go upstairs and change,” Jack says, shooing Davey towards the stairwell.</p><p>“But I’m comfortable,” Davey grumbles, but he obediently trudges up the stairs.</p><p>“Pick something red!” Jack calls after him. “Oh, and tell Racetrack to move his ass! I’ve gotta be in the locker room in half an hour and we still have to pick up Crutchie from the library.”</p><p>“Calm your shit, Jack, I’m coming!” Racetrack shouts back from somewhere above him before Davey can respond. “Give a man a second to piss, will ya!”</p><p>Jack rolls his eyes. “Just hurry up!”</p><p>He finishes gathering his things together while he waits, grabbing a few bottles of Gatorade and a handful of granola bars and stuffing them into his bag. He’s just lacing up his sneakers when he hears footsteps behind him.</p><p>“Jack, Katherine’s just texted me—she wants to know where we’re eating after the game,” Davey says as he wanders back into the living room.</p><p>“I dunno Davey, anywhere is fine… by…” Jack trails off, suddenly speechless. Davey is wearing his letterman jacket. <em> Davey is wearing his— </em></p><p>Jack’s mouth goes dry. It feels like someone’s hit him, hard, right between the eyes.</p><p>“Jack?” Davey absently prompts when Jack doesn’t continue, looking at his phone. “Did you hear what I said?”</p><p>Jack doesn’t answer, can’t answer. His eyes rake over Davey’s form: red is a fantastic color on him—it stands out against his dark hair and emphasizes the blue of his eyes. They’re nearly the same height but Davey isn’t as broad as Jack is, so the jacket is just the slightest bit too big for him, hanging down to the tops of his thighs and dwarfing his shoulders.</p><p>Davey chooses this moment to notice Jack’s staring; a delicious flush of pink blooms across his face. “You said I could wear anything red!” he says defensively. “This is red!”</p><p>“You’re wearing my letterman jacket,” Jack says, and his voice comes out low and raspy.</p><p>“You said something red!” Davey insists, somehow mistaking Jack’s tone for disapproval, his blush deepening further. “But all you had was t-shirts and I didn’t want to be cold and—and Racetrack said you wouldn’t mind!”</p><p>He fiddles with the sleeves as he rambles, and fucking hell, they’re so long on him that only the tips of his fingers are visible. “He said you wouldn’t mind, but, uh, I can put on something else if you want me t-“</p><p>“No!” Jack growls, startling them both. He takes a deep breath and tries to get a hold of himself before he does something drastic. “No, Dave, it’s fine, don’t worry about it. I don’t mind.”</p><p>“Are you sure?” Davey asks, still a little hesitant.</p><p>“Positive,” Jack assures him, though he’s anything but. “We can’t have you out there in just anything, now can we? Gotta make sure you’re repping for the team. Besides, you look-“</p><p><em>Fucking amazing</em><em>.</em> <em>Goddamn perfect</em><em>.</em> <em>Like you’re </em><em>mine</em><em>.</em></p><p>“-good.”</p><p>“Go team,” Davey says with a wry grin, looking at Jack through his fringe. His eyes are very, very blue. Jack is abruptly aware of how utterly screwed he is.</p><p>“That’s the spirit, Dave.” Fingers suddenly numb, Jack digs out his keys and tosses them over, then manages to say in a somewhat normal tone of voice, “go start the car, will ya? I’m gonna go drag Racer away from the bathroom mirror—Coach will bench me if I’m late again.”  </p><p>Davey shrugs and heads out the door, blind as ever to the havoc he wreaks on Jack just by existing. Jack stuffs his hands in his pockets to stop himself from reaching out and grabbing Davey as he walks by, biting back the groan that threatens to tear its way out of his throat when he catches sight of his back: KELLY is stamped across Davey’s shoulders in bold, white letters.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em> Fuck. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He’s gonna <em> murder </em> Racetrack.</p><p>00000</p><p>The drive to the school is an exercise in self-restraint.</p><p>Jack is incredibly aware of Davey in the passenger seat, playing with his phone and thumbing idly at the buttons on his—<em>Jack’s</em>—jacket. Racetrack is absolutely no help, the shithead, smirking and wagging his eyebrows suggestively at Jack whenever their gazes meet in the rear-view mirror and just generally relishing in Jack’s pain. Things only get worse when they swing by the library. Crutchie clambers into the backseat with a suspiciously wide grin—it’s clear that Race has already roped him into this latest episode of “Let’s-Fuck-With-Jack!" The two of them settle into a quiet, intense discussion, peppered with bursts of snickering and oh-so-deliberate glances at Jack.</p><p>By the time he turns into the student parking lot, Jack’s feeling thoroughly hunted, driving with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and his shoulders hunched up around his ears. He pulls into a space a touch more abruptly than he means to, but you know what? He’s fucking entitled, seeing as how he’s caught in a <em> goddamn conspiracy.  </em></p><p>He leaves the others to get settled in the bleachers, making his way to the locker room with his eyes trained carefully on the ground, where it’s safe and boring and unstimulating. Once there, Jack can distract himself by talking with the other guys on the team or working through some pre-game warm ups. </p><p>It also helps that Davey’s not within arms’ reach or his direct line of sight anymore.</p><p>Spot arrives a little after Jack does, tossing his duffle down on the bench with a thud. He takes one look at Jack’s face and snorts.</p><p>“So you’re the reason Racetrack’s blowing up my phone?” he asks, one eyebrow raised. “I haven’t hadda chance to check my messages yet—what’s he harassing you about now?”</p><p>“Well, I wouldn’t wanna spoil the surprise,” Jack grouses.</p><p>“Oh, so, it’s about Davey,” Spot surmises. “What is this, the third time this week? Christ, Kelly, get a hobby. Or fuck, just grow a pair and makeout with the guy, put the rest of us outta our misery.”</p><p>“Shuddup,” Jack says, even as a flush creeps up the back of his neck. He can tell the exact moment that Spot starts looking through his missed texts because he lets out a bark of laughter.</p><p>“I take it back: keep on being a moron because this shit is <em> hilarious</em>,” Spot says. He’s scrolling avidly through his messages. “Jesus, this is the funniest thing that’s happened in months.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Jack mutters. He considers slapping the phone out of Spot’s hand but quickly dismisses the idea—he likes his fingers arranged just the way they are, thanks.</p><p>Spot pauses on a particular message, then starts cracking up. Jack briefly debates the merits of knowing what’s being said about him versus remaining blissfully ignorant; unable to resist, he glances over and regrets it immediately. Racetrack has managed to sneak a picture of Jack’s initial reaction to <em>The Incident </em>and it’s just as bad as Jack had imagined. It’s blurry and zoomed in way too close, but those facts only emphasize the way past-Jack looks like he’s having a conniption. Racetrack has captioned the picture with <em> LMAOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! </em>and a bunch of cry-laughing faces because he’s the fucking worst.</p><p>“Channel some of that sexual frustration into tonight’s game and we’ll send Westpoint home cryin,’” Spot manages to choke out between laughs.</p><p>“I fucking hate all of you,” Jack says. </p><p>00000</p><p>There’s only seconds left on the clock. </p><p>Jack steadies himself, throws....</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The pass connects.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The crowd explodes into motion almost before Jack can process what’s happened, but they’ve done it. They’ve won.</p><p>Jack rips off his helmet and lifts it over his head, both arms thrown up in triumph. They’re all shouting and laughing and cheering, a victory anthem playing over the loudspeaker. He happens to turn back towards the stands and somehow manages to pick Davey out of the mass of people. </p><p>Jack’s arm falls back to his side, his helmet thunking hollowly against his leg. This is what they mean by tunnel vision, he realizes suddenly, but it’s a distant thought. The roar of the crowd, the jostling and screaming of the team celebrating their win, it all fades away. There’s nothing to hear but the deafening sound of his pulse beating in his ears, nothing to see except Davey steadily fighting his way through the sea of cheering spectators that have flooded the field.</p><p>He’s still wearing Jack’s letterman.</p><p>“Oh my god, Jack, you were amazing! That was—” Davey’s already talking a mile a minute, but it’s like Jack doesn’t have the brain cells to listen to Davey and look at Davey at the same time, and the looking must take priority. His face is flushed pink from the cold but his eyes are all but sparkling in his excitement. His hair is a disaster—Jack imagines him sitting in the stands, raking his hands anxiously through his hair as the game rocked through its final minutes. Someone, probably Katherine or Crutchie, has drawn a #12 on his cheek in black marker.</p><p>He’s very pretty. He’s very close.</p><p><em> He’s still wearing Jack’s letterman</em>.</p><p>Davey’s hand lands on Jack’s arm, and it breaks through the haze.</p><p>“-ck? Jack are you sure you don’t have a concussion?” Davey asks, peering at Jack worriedly. “Your pupils are dilated—I mean, <em> really </em>dilated. Are you okay?”</p><p>Jack swallows, licks his lips, blinks. </p><p>He starts to answer, but he’s honestly afraid of what’ll come out of his mouth, so he decides a tactical retreat is in order: he murmurs something unintelligible, then turns on his heel and all but runs back to the locker room.</p><p>When Spot comes to find him some twenty minutes later, he’s toweling his hair dry after a<em> very</em> cold shower.</p><p>“Are you actually hurt or are you just freaking out again?” Spot asks. “Because whatever you did has got Davey all concerned.”</p><p>“I’m not gonna make it,” Jack says frankly, staring into the middle distance. “I literally can’t look at him directly, he’s too fucking pretty. My heart’s gonna give out. I’m gonna keel over and die. My dick’s gonna swell up and—”</p><p>“<em>Jesus</em>,” Spot mutters. He digs Jack’s clean t-shirt out of his bag and lobs it at his head. Jack doesn’t even make an attempt at catching it: it hits him in the chest and falls into his lap with a soft <em> fuwmp</em>.</p><p>“Not that this ain’t funny as shit, but I’m gonna need you to put aside your bisexual yearning for, like, two seconds and get dressed,” Spot says, rolling his eyes. “I want onion rings and you’re holding us up.”</p><p>Jack looks at him. "I'm in distress," he laments. "Does no one care that I'm in distress?"</p><p>"Onion rings, Kelly," Spot says, ignoring Jack completely. "Hurry the fuck up."</p><p>Jack sighs, but does as he's told. Guess it's time for round three.</p><p>Rest in <em>fucking pieces</em>.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Yay, this is finally being expanded into a full fic! Thank you for all the kind comments on the Bits &amp; Bobs chapters -- they are what inspired me to finally finish this idea! :D</p><p>Come hang out with me on tumblr @livesincerely.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Post-Game</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The 2nd Street Diner is a popular choice for post-game meals and it’s already packed to the brim when they get there, students wedged into every available seat.</p><p>“All of our larger tables are full,” the hostess says, frowning, when they walk up to her. “We don’t have a six-seater open.”</p><p>“Is there anything available?” Katherine asks, ever persuasive. “Really, we’re not picky.”</p><p>She checks her list again. “We’ve got a booth free,” she says dubiously, “but it’ll be a pretty tight squeeze.”</p><p>“That’s fine,” Katherine assures her. “Anything will do.”</p><p>The hostess leads them back and, okay, yeah, the booth is on the small side—probably designed for four people, max.</p><p>“We’ll make it work,” Katherine says, nodding decisively. “Spot, Race, you go… and then I’ll... Crutchie you just— great! And then Jack, um, wait, maybe Jack should—”</p><p>“Davey, you’re gonna have to sit in Jack’s lap,” Racetrack says, smirking at Jack, “so that there’s room for Crutchie’s leg.”</p><p>Jack’s expression falters. Katherine’s eyes light up with unholy glee.</p><p>“That’ll work,” Katherine says, saccharine sweet. “You don’t mind, right?”</p><p>Usually Jack would jump at the chance to hold Davey in his arms for any amount of time—especially when such a good excuse has been handed to him. But by this point Jack is genuinely afraid that if he has to spend much longer in close proximity to Davey, he’s gonna have an aneurysm. Still, there’s nothing he can do about it—there’s no excuse he can come up with on the fly for not wanting to share that won’t make Davey suspicious—so a minute later they’re all squeezing into the booth: Racer and Spot nested together, then Katherine all on one side, then Crutchie, Davey, and Jack on the other.</p><p>Jack makes a note to murder Racetrack extra hard when he gets the chance.</p><p>Davey arranges himself sideways across Jack’s body so he doesn’t completely block Jack’s face, which means that most of his weight is resting on just one of Jack’s thighs instead of squarely over Jack’s lap, <em> thank god</em>. Davey leans against Jack’s chest like it’s no big deal, sure of his welcome, which is incredibly gratifying and incredibly distracting, and throws an arm over Jack’s shoulders to balance himself. Jack’s heart skips, then beats even harder in his chest. </p><p>Davey opens a menu and positions it so they can both look at it, but he may as well not have bothered. All Jack can think about is the way the heat from Davey’s body is seeping into his skin, how if he wanted to, he could count every one of Davey’s eyelashes.</p><p>If Jack moved his head slightly, they’re close enough that he could just— </p><p>“Do you want to?” Davey asks, and Jack has a moment of insanity where he almost blurts out, ‘for the love of <em> god</em>, <em> yes,’ </em> but he’s able to stop himself at the last second.</p><p>“...What?” Jack says, when he’s sure he won’t say something psychotic. Davey blinks at him. </p><p>“Fries?” Davey repeats. “Do you want some? We can split a plate.” </p><p>Jack attempts to get a fucking grip. “Uh, no, I’m good.”</p><p>At some point the waitress comes over and takes their orders; Jack is vaguely aware of ordering a burger or something, he’s not really sure. Davey fits perfectly against him like they’re a pair of puzzle pieces slotting together, relaxed and warm in his arms. Jack really wishes he could enjoy it more as it’s actually pretty nice, except for the fact that his dick is <em> absolutely determined </em> to get involved in the situation no matter how desperately Jack tries to control it.</p><p>There’s nowhere safe to rest his eyes, nowhere safe to put his hands. His only saving grace is that there are several layers between them—if Jack can just keep it together a little while longer, Davey’ll be none the wiser to his… predicament. Still, Jack shifts slightly, trying to find a better, less perilous position just to be safe and—<em> nope, nope, that’s worse that’s worse. </em></p><p>He can feel the others laughing at him: Racetrack’s shit-eating grin, Crutchie sniggering quietly under his breath, Spot and Kath’s judgmental smirks. Jack takes a moment to flip them all an emphatic middle finger from behind Davey’s back. </p><p>You know what? Fine. It’s fine. Jack is <em> fine</em>. </p><p>Sure, any second now he’s gonna pop a blood vessel or six, and he can feel the rumble of Davey’s voice reverberating through his chest from where they’re pressed together, which is a soft and strange type of intimacy that Jack <em> really </em> isn’t emotionally sound enough to deal with right now, and every time Davey moves one of his thighs just barely, torturously, grazes Jack’s dick, which is getting harder and harder <em> by the second</em>—  </p><p>Food appears, a blissful distraction. Jack eats his burger one handed—chewing robotically and tasting nothing—as at some point he’d shifted the other hand up to Davey’s waist and he can’t bring himself to pull it back.</p><p>He goes to grab a napkin and makes the mistake of looking at Davey out of the corner of his eye.</p><p>Jack freezes, dumbstruck.</p><p>Davey is steadily working his way through his order of fries, which is <em> fine</em>, except that it’s <em> absolutely not fine</em>. See, ‘cause the last thing Jack needs is a reason to watch Davey—he already finds Davey utterly enthralling, even under the most innocent of circumstances. But he’s only human. And the way Davey is eating those fries is <em> fucking obscene</em>.</p><p>Jack is staring, he knows he’s staring, but he can’t turn away. His eyes are caught on Davey’s mouth, on the pink flash of tongue behind his teeth, on how his fingers linger against his lower lip after every bite.</p><p>Davey notices his gaze and throws him a curious look. “Did you change your mind?” he asks, lapping up one last hint of salt from his fingertips with a little flick of his tongue. “You can have a taste, if you want one.”</p><p>Jack wordlessly shakes his head, throat impossibly dry. <em> Jesus fucking Christ. </em></p><p>Davey just shrugs and goes back to his fries, completely oblivious to the way he’s just sent Jack’s blood pressure skyrocketing. </p><p>“Hey, Davey,” Racetrack pipes up suddenly with a sly smile, “can ya pass me the ketchup? I can’t reach it from here.”</p><p>Davey leans over and the roundest curve of his ass grinds right against the tip of Jack’s dick. Jack fights the urge to rock up into the sensation but he can’t help the sharp hiss of breath that escapes him, his hands clamping down on Davey’s hips to keep him from shifting any further.</p><p>“Oh, sorry, Jack,” Davey says, apologetic. “Did I hit a bruise?”</p><p>Jack longs for the sweet release of death. His fingers clench and flex against the divots of Davey’s hips, and there’s a moment where he genuinely wonders if it’s possible to combust from sexual frustration.</p><p>“You okay, Jack?” Crutchie asks, and maybe he’d be more convincing if Jack couldn’t hear the laughter in his voice. “That sounded like it hurt.”</p><p>“Eh, I’m sure Jack’s just sore,” Spot interjects, smirking. “You’re good, aren’t ya Jack?”</p><p>“Oh, I’m <em> swell</em>,” Jack says through gritted teeth.</p><p>“Are you sure?” Davey asks, biting his lip. “Because I could maybe—” and he starts squirming around in Jack’s lap.</p><p>Jack suppresses a groan, hands going vice-tight around Davey’s hips; Davey mercifully stops moving.</p><p>“Dave, it’s fine,” Jack all but begs, voice strangled. “Just leave it.”</p><p>Davey looks at him, head tilted consideringly, but lets it go. He has to be suspecting something by this point—Jack can only hope he buys that Jack’s hurting from the game, not aching for… other reasons. </p><p>Finally it comes time to close the check and clear out. Jack pays for his and Davey’s food, partially because it’s his turn and also because he knows that Davey’s wallet is in his back pocket (it’s digging into Jack’s thigh from where they’re pressed together) and the last thing he needs is Davey reaching a hand down between them.</p><p>Then there’s the process of getting out of the booth. It takes some maneuvering for Davey to get off of him: at one point he ends up facing Jack, all but straddling him as he tries to slide out of his lap, and there’s a moment where they’re so close that Jack can feel the whisper of Davey’s breath on his face—one last hellish temptation. Jack stiffly clambers up after him; he’s spent so much effort restraining himself over the last hour that his joints have locked up in protest. </p><p>“I’m gonna run to the restroom,” Davey says. “I’ll be right back.”</p><p>Jack watches as he turns and walks away and <em> fuck, </em>seeing KELLY stamped across his shoulders is no less devastating now than it was the first time. He waits a second, just to be sure that Davey is properly out of earshot, then he rounds on the others.</p><p>“You guys are <em> fucking assholes</em>,” he says vehemently. </p><p>“<em>Oh my god</em>,” Racetrack laughs, clutching his stomach as his shoulders shake, "that was the most entertaining shit I’ve ever seen: 10/10, <em> best fucking idea</em>.”</p><p>“Watch your back, Racer,” Jack hisses. “I know where you sleep.”</p><p>“Your— your face,” Crutchie chokes out, and of course he’s laughing too because Jack is surrounded by traitors. “Your face when Davey moved—“</p><p>“—sounded like a murdered cat—“ Spot adds, just to really rub it in</p><p>“—it was so fucking obvious—“ Racetrack chimes in again because he can’t help himself.</p><p>“—and then Davey said, <em> ‘did I hit a </em> <em>bruise</em><em>?l’” </em></p><p>“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Jack says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Get it all out ya bunch of dipshits.”</p><p>“This wouldn’t be an issue if you’d just get it together and ask him out,” Katherine says without a bit of sympathy. “Or, alternatively, if you had even an ounce of chill.”</p><p>“It’s <em> Davey</em>,” Jack insists. “What the fuck do you want from me? Christ, I’m going outta my mind—I can’t stand to be around him, can’t hardly look at him. I deserve a fucking medal for the shit I’ve dealt with tonight, <em> jesus</em>, get me outta here before I lose it completely. Or fuck, just strike me down and put me outta my misery because I’m actually, genuinely gonna die if he so much as breathes in my direction again tonight.”</p><p>There’s a sort of stunned, uneasy silence following his rant. Then Jack realizes that his friends aren’t looking at him anymore: they’re looking at something over his shoulder.</p><p>Jack turns around, heart sinking. Davey’s standing just behind him and the expression on his face is fucking <em> awful</em>. He stares at Jack for a moment. Then he turns on his heel and storms away.</p><p>“<em>Oh, shit. </em> Wait— Davey, wait!” Jack calls, chasing after him, but Davey’s got long legs and between one second and the next he’s outside the restaurant and cutting through the mess of cars in the lot, seemingly determined to get as far away from Jack as possible.</p><p>Jack catches up to him on the far side of the parking lot—the empty half of the parking lot—which is probably for the best: at least there aren’t any witnesses to Jack’s spectacular fuck up.</p><p>“Wait, Dave, slow down a second, let me explain—”</p><p>“Leave me alone,” Davey says shortly, and he won’t look at Jack, still marching away at a steady clip, forcing Jack to half-jog next to him to keep up. “I don’t wanna hear it.”</p><p>“No, Davey, it’s not what you think—”</p><p>“Save it!” Davey snaps. “Just go away! Get out of here before you<em> lose it completely</em>.”</p><p>Jack winces when Davey throws his words back at him because fuck, yeah, okay that sounds really bad. He tries to salvage the situation. “No, really, Dave, you’ve got it all wrong—”</p><p>“Oh, I’ve got it wrong?” Davey hisses back, finally whirling around to face him. “Enlighten me then, because there really aren’t that many ways to interpret ‘I can’t stand him,’ or ‘put me out of my misery.’”</p><p>Jack flounders in the face of Davey’s obvious hurt, his mouth opening and closing uselessly as he tries to think of something to say. He starts again, “Davey, I swear, <em> I promise, </em>I didn’t mean it how it sounded—”</p><p>But Davey won’t give him a chance to talk. </p><p>“You should’ve said something sooner, if I was annoying you so much,” Davey spits out, and he’s trying to sound derisive but there are tears starting to well up in his eyes. “No need to <em> fucking suffer </em> on my account.”</p><p>He scrubs a sleeve roughly across his face, then seems to remember that he’s still wearing Jack’s letterman jacket. He lets out a humorless snort. </p><p>“Here, I’m sure you want this back,” Davey says, gesturing down at himself, and all Jack can see is the bitter twist of his mouth, the anguished, defensive set of his shoulders, the way his arms are wrapped around his body—like he's trying to physically hold himself together. “I don’t know why you even bothered, when you obviously can’t fucking stand it, can’t <em> fucking stand me— </em>”</p><p>His voice breaks on that last part, and that’s it for Jack. He steps closer, then reaches out and takes Davey’s face in his hands, carefully wiping away the couple of tears that have fallen with his thumbs. The suddenness of the movement seems to shock Davey into silence: he looks up at Jack with watery blue eyes, his mouth parted ever so slightly, too surprised to push Jack away.</p><p>“I don’t understand how you don’t see what everyone else sees,” Jack says, and his voice is rough with tenderness. “How you can’t take one look at me and just <em> know</em>, you know? Anyone else would’ve figured it out by now, everyone else <em> has </em> figured it out. I mean, it’s a fucking game for them at this point: how many ways can we torture Jack with his obvious feelings? How many ways can we make him squirm by dangling what he wants most right in front of his nose, knowing that he’ll never have the guts to actually reach out and take it.”</p><p>“‘Course, the idiocy is all me, don’t got an excuse for that,” Jack continues, shaking his head ruefully, “and there’s no excuse good enough for making you cry. I’m real sorry about that, Davey. I’m sorry, period.”</p><p>He leaves it at that, giving Davey a second to process. As he’s been talking Davey’s hands have come up to sit on Jack’s shoulders; one of them goes tight around the material of his shirt. </p><p>“I know this is you trying to apologize,” Davey says, sniffing a little, and though he’s moved through his upset, he’s still got that confused little furrow in his brow, “but I still don’t really understand what the hell’s going on so can you please just say whatever it is you’re trying to say and—”</p><p>Jack closes that slight distance between them and kisses him. It’s nothing fancy, just the barest press of his lips against Davey’s, but even that brief contact sends his heart racing all over again.</p><p>He pulls away. Davey’s eyes have gone impossibly wide. </p><p>“I’m trying to say that I’m absolutely, knock-’em-down, drag-’em-out, head-over-heels in love with you,” Jack says. “It’s kind of a major aspect of my personality, and, like, my fucking life, really. Literally everyone knows, everyone can tell, the only reason you can’t is because you’re fucking oblivious and have, like, no concept of how incredible you are which is a <em> damn shame</em>—”</p><p>Davey lurches forward and kisses him. It’s soft lips and shuddering breaths and thundering hearts. It’s intent and heated and slow and savoring. </p><p>“You love me too,” Davey says with a delighted little laugh when they part that second time. “You really, actually…” He trails off and the smile he graces him with threatens to take his breath away. </p><p>And if there’s one thing Jack’s proved tonight, it’s that he is helpless to resist that which is Davey Jacobs. He leans back in for another kiss. And another. And another.</p><p>“Wait, if<em> that’s </em> what was… then what happened at the restaurant?” Davey pants eventually, and Jack would be a little offended that he’s thinking of other things while they’re making out, except that he’s got his arms thrown around Jack in a way that makes Jack suspect that he’s gone a touch weak in the knees. Jack fucking loves it. “Why were you being all weird…?”</p><p>Jack shakes his head, crushing their mouths back together. “It’s you… in this <em> fucking letterman jacket</em>,” he gets out between kisses. “It’s been driving me crazy, you look <em> so fucking good in it</em>, it’s goddamn criminal.”</p><p>“You… like me in your jacket?” Davey asks.</p><p>“I like you too much in my jacket,” Jack corrects. </p><p>Jack nips at Davey’s lower lip. Davey lets out a soft, breathy noise that Jack files away as something to be thoroughly explored later. Jack’s starting to deepen the kiss, his fingers curling in Davey’s hair for better purchase, when Davey suddenly pulls away, wide eyed.</p><p>“Wait, <em> oh my god</em>, that was your dick, wasn’t it?” Davey asks incredulously. “I thought it was your cell phone but it was your <em> fucking hard-on </em> pressing against my—”</p><p>“<em>Jesus Christ</em>, shut up and let me kiss you,” Jack mutters, pulling him back in.</p><p>And there’s not much conversation after that.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>There will be a smutty epilogue! Stay tuned ;)</p><p>Thanks for reading! Come hang out with me on tumblr! @livesincerely</p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Overtime</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By the time Coach finally lets him leave, the rest of the team has long since cleared out, leaving Jack’s beat-up old Chrysler as one of the last vehicles in the lot. Except, Jack realizes, slowing to a halt, he’s not as alone as he’d thought—there’s someone waiting for him.</p><p>Davey is leaning against the hood of Jack’s car, flipping lazily through a paperback. Jack’s eyes track up the length of Davey’s body, taking in the long line of his legs, the way he chews absently at his lip as he reads, how the evening breeze ruffles his hair, causing him to reach up every so often to brush his fringe out of his eyes.</p><p>Jack lingers there for a moment, just appreciating the view. Then his brain skips and re-centers as he actually processes what he’s seeing. Because it’s not just that Davey’s waiting on him. It’s that he’s waiting on him and he’s wearing Jack’s letterman jacket.</p><p>Jack’s spine straightens, his shoulders rolling back in anticipation. <em> Game on. </em></p><p>“Hey, sweetheart,” Jack drawls out as he approaches, giving Davey an obvious once-over. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes. I don’t suppose you’re waiting on me?”</p><p>Davey glances up—Jack catches the barest hint of a smirk—then goes back to reading. “No, I’m waiting on my boyfriend.”</p><p>“Oh, yeah?” Jack says. “That’s nice of ya.”</p><p>“Mmmm hmmm...” Davey hums, non-committal. Jack tilts his head, considering him. </p><p>“This boyfriend of yours,” he starts slowly, coming around to stand next to the front bumper. “He can’t be that great if he’s got ya out in the cold like this.”</p><p>“Well, to be fair, he doesn’t know I’m here,” Davey says, picking at a torn corner of his book. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.”</p><p>“A smart, gorgeous guy like you, sittin’ pretty on the hood of his car?” Jack offers, raising an eyebrow. “Sounds like a damn good surprise to me.”</p><p>Davey squirms at the clear admiration in Jack’s voice and the change in position causes his knees to fall open a little bit; Jack takes his cue and steps closer, so that he’s standing right between Davey’s legs. Davey’s eyes dart up to meet his own, mouth parting slightly at the sudden proximity, and there’s the barest sound of an inhaled breath as Jack reaches out and plucks Davey’s book from his now-slackened grip and places it deliberately to the side.</p><p>“How much longer ‘til the boyfriend shows up?” Jack asks, fingers trailing lightly along the outsides of Davey’s thighs.</p><p>“He should be getting out of practice any minute now,” Davey replies, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He’s doing a good job at playing demure but there’s no denying the heat that’s sparking in those blue eyes. “He’s not one to keep me waiting.” </p><p>“So he’s on the football team then,” Jack muses, or pretends to. He tugs at the bottom edge of the letterman that Davey’s wearing. “‘S that why you’ve got this on?”</p><p>“It’s part of the surprise,” Davey answers, a little breathlessly. “He likes when I wear it.”</p><p>“Oh, I bet he does,” Jack mutters, shifting so that he’s braced over Davey with his hands pressed flat against the hood of the car. Davey doesn’t move, letting Jack lean right into his space. “And you don’t mind? ‘Cause it sounds like he’s a bit territorial.”</p><p>“Oh, he’s definitely the jealous type,” Davey murmurs, “but it’s not a big deal. Actually, it works out perfectly.”</p><p>“And why’s that?”</p><p>Davey ducks his head a little, looking up at Jack from under his eyelashes in that way that drives him absolutely crazy. Then he says, in a perfectly mild tone that shows he knows <em> exactly </em>what he’s doing, “Because I like the thought of him staking his claim.”</p><p>The words linger in the air for barely a second before Jack’s mouth closes on Davey’s in a heated, demanding kiss. Davey’s lips part eagerly to his own, like he’s just been waiting for Jack to give in to him, and he’s warm and pliant against him as their tongues slide and curl together.</p><p>“That wasn’t very nice of ya,” Jack says when they separate, doing away with the pretense. </p><p>“Really?” Davey asks, panting a little. “Because I thought it was <em> very </em> nice of me.”</p><p>“You shouldn’t tease me like this, sweetheart,” Jack growls out, unable to resist pressing another kiss to that gorgeous mouth, “‘cause every time I see you in my letterman I just wanna ravish ya on the spot, and we can’t have that.”</p><p>“I don’t see why we can’t,” Davey replies, hooking a foot around Jack’s calf to draw him even closer. </p><p>“<em>Davey</em>,” Jack groans even as he lets himself be moved, pushing Davey harder into the hood of the car with the weight of his body, arousal thrumming low in his belly. </p><p>“I’m just saying, we’ve got a perfectly good backseat right here,” Davey continues, fingertips dancing whisper-soft across the nape of Jack’s neck. Then lifts up and murmurs directly in Jack’s ear: “Don’t you want to take advantage of your surprise?”</p><p>Jack’s blood rushes south so fast he nearly goes dizzy with it. “<em>Get in the damn car</em>.”</p><p>They pile into the backseat, Jack settling in first, then pulling Davey in on top of him, straddling his lap. Jack’s hands are everywhere: cupping around the back of Davey’s head to drag him into a frantic kiss, snaking up the back of his shirt to paw at the soft skin there, sliding down over the delicious curve of his ass, taking two palmfuls and <em> squeezing</em>.</p><p>“Fuck,” he bites out as Davey wrestles Jack’s t-shirt over his head, then starts working a line of searing kisses down the curve of his jaw. He’s nearly mindless with how badly he wants him: Davey is fucking stunning above him with his darkened eyes and kiss-swollen lips and Jesus <em> fucking </em> Christ <em> that damn letterman jacket—  </em></p><p>Jack groans into another kiss, sucking at Davey’s tongue and nibbling at his bottom lip. Davey’s dick is hard and heavy against his stomach, the layers of clothing between them doing little to dull the feeling, and Jack is just as hard<em>—</em>painfully so<em>— </em>his own erection straining against the front of his jeans. Jack’s hands move to curl around Davey’s waist, urging Davey to roll his hips down in a sensual move that has them both gasping for breath.</p><p>Jack scrapes his teeth over Davey’s pulse point, thrilling at the shiver and stuttering breath it draws from him, then tugs the collar of his shirt out of the way and starts working a hickey into the side of his neck.</p><p>“Possessive... <em> bastard</em>,” Davey moans, fingers going tight in Jack’s hair.</p><p>“Sweetheart, you have no fucking idea,” Jack growls back, nipping and biting at that sensitive spot over and over again until he’s satisfied that a vicious bruise will form there. He moves further down, swirling his tongue in the hollow of Davey’s throat to lap up the salt that’s gathered there.</p><p>“Jack,” Davey whines, back arching as he chases after the sensation. “I need— I want— <em> Fuck</em>, Jack, <em> hurry up</em>.”</p><p>“Bossy,” Jack murmurs into his skin.</p><p>“<em>Horny</em>,” Davey counters, and he wears frustrated even better when he’s all flushed and rumpled like this. “Waiting for you to <em>get on with it.</em> Jesus, what do you want me to do, beg?”</p><p>The words hit Jack like a blow to the chest. His grip on Davey’s hips goes so tight so suddenly that Davey lets out a throaty, startled noise. “Jack,” he gasps. “Jack, are you—”</p><p>Jack pulls him down, hard, right as he thrusts his own hips up, a rough motion that’s all harsh desire and sharp pleasure, and whatever other smartass comment Davey might’ve had queued up dies on his lips. Davey squirms restlessly in his lap, desperate for more of that exquisite friction, but it’s a futile effort: Jack is too strong—his hands are like vices on Davey’s hips, tight enough to mark him, tight enough to bruise—so it’s all but impossible for him to move unless Jack lets him. </p><p><em>“Jack,”</em> Davey whimpers as he realizes that Jack is in complete control of his movements, and Jack stares up at him, teeth bared in a predatory grin. “Jack, let me—” He starts tearing at his clothes, trying to work his arms out of his—<em>Jack’s</em>—jacket’s sleeves.</p><p>“Don’t you fucking dare.” Jack halts his attempts with another slow, dirty roll of their hips, grinding their erections together, and Davey chokes on a moan. “You wanna come out here, all pretty and perfect with my name plastered across your back? You wanna <em> push me</em>? The jacket stays on.”</p><p>Wide blue eyes. “Jack—”</p><p>He rears up and all but devours Davey’s mouth. “You’re mine,” he snarls.</p><p><em>“Oh my god—</em>”</p><p>Jack wrenches Davey’s fly open, working his jeans and underwear down just far enough to get to his goal. Davey’s dick is nice and hard, leaking slightly at the tip, and his thighs are trembling, his nails biting into Jack’s skin from where he’s braced himself against Jack’s shoulders and Jack <em> wantswantswants</em>— </p><p>He can’t bear to let go of Davey long enough to get his own pants open the easy way, so he gropes at the button of his jeans one-handed, barely getting the zipper down far enough before he’s pulling his dick out. Jack allows his grip to loosen a fraction, giving Davey the barest bit of space to move and he takes every advantage of it, rutting against Jack’s stomach in short, helpless little jerks. Every now and then his thrusts cause his dick to rub right against Jack’s and the rough, wet slide of it is so impossibly good.</p><p>Jack tips Davey’s pelvis up, searching for just the right angle, and when their dicks line up he wraps a fist around them both, pumping them together in long, fast strokes. </p><p>“You gonna come for me, Davey?” Jack asks, working his hand up and down, up and down, and Davey’s head falls forward, his breath coming in choppy pants. “You gonna come for me, sweetheart?”</p><p><em>“Jack... </em> ” Davey whines, a desperate, wrecked little noise. All Jack can think is <em> fuck</em>, and <em> god, yes, </em>and <em> mine, mine, mine, </em> <em>he’s mine.</em></p><p>Jack jerks them once, twice, three times more, Davey’s hips stutter and twitch in his hold, and then he’s coming hard all over Jack’s hand and stomach. And watching him come—just the sight of him, really, all fucked out and sweaty and covered in marks from Jack’s hands and Jack’s mouth and <em> wearing Jack’s letterman</em>—is enough to send Jack tumbling over the edge as well.</p><p>They collapse into each other, boneless with their post-orgasm high. Jack has enough awareness to shift so that Davey is cradled against his chest, wrapping his arms around him to keep him close. </p><p>He presses a kiss to Davey’s temple, running a soothing hand over his back. “Are you okay?”</p><p>“I’m <em>amazing</em>,” Davey sighs, sinking further into the embrace. “Why wouldn’t I be?”</p><p>“I was… rough,” Jack mutters, shaking his head. “Too rough. I shouldn't've held ya like that— I shouldn’t’ve grabbed ya so hard.”</p><p>“Let’s not pretend like I didn’t provoke you,” Davey says, shifting back so he can level Jack with a flat look. “If I didn’t like it, I would’ve stopped you.”</p><p>“Still, you're gonna have some wicked bruises,” Jack says, feeling guilty. Or maybe, feeling guilty that he <em> doesn’t </em> feel guilty.</p><p>“Nothing I wasn’t asking for,” Davey says firmly. He looks down at himself, then fits his fingers around the divots of his hips right over where Jack had been holding him. His touch is tentative, curious—like if he presses hard enough he might feel an imprint left behind by Jack’s hands. “Nothing I didn’t want.”</p><p>Jack swallows around the fresh desire that’s building in his throat. Davey sees the expression on his face and smirks. </p><p>“What?” he asks coyly, smoothing a hand down the jacket’s front. “You thought <em> you </em> were the only one with fantasies about this thing?”</p><p>Jack kisses him again, slow and deep. Half joking and half deadly serious, he asks: “Think we can make it to an actual bed for round two?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for reading! I'm so proud to have finally finished this story! The idea has been kicking around in my mind for literal years now, like since 2017, and I wrote the opening scene probably around the same time. It never saw the light of day because I sort of thought it was a niche idea that only I would enjoy; I took a chance on posting it as a Bits &amp; Bobs and people were so incredibly supportive of the idea! And now this exists! So again, thank you for reading and for sticking with me throughout the process! &lt;3</p><p>Come hang out with me on tumblr @ livesincerely</p>
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